


Memories, Like Water, Can Be Tainted or Distilled; Sometimes Will Evaporate

by techieturnover



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: AU, Gen, M/M, Memory Loss, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, very vague allusions to coffee dates in the future
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-03
Updated: 2014-07-03
Packaged: 2018-02-07 06:39:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1888740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/techieturnover/pseuds/techieturnover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James Buchanan Barnes struggles to readjust to civilian life. He has trouble remembering where he puts his keys, but he can remember with crystalline clarity the color of blood in the first moment it leaves a body. </p><p>And now he's lost in an airport parking lot looking for his damned car.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memories, Like Water, Can Be Tainted or Distilled; Sometimes Will Evaporate

**Author's Note:**

> A billion BILLION thanks to [barbitone](http://archiveofourown.org/users/barbitone) for acting as beta. Other notes at the end.

Bucky Barnes is walking up the stairs of his apartment. A creek on the third stair and he knows - _he knows_ he made it but he pauses for half a second anyway, listening for a second noise. When it doesn't come he continues walking up the stairs. He gets to the top of the stairs to the landing. He. Where was he...going? 

Shit. 

_Shit._

He knows he was going....he looks at his watch, looks at the walls, at his hands for any clue. They all stare back without answers. He sighs in irritation and pulls out his phone to check the schedule he'd made for himself. He hates when this happens.

He forgets more often than he should despite whatever his therapist says. It's why he has an app on his phone filled with half a dozen checklists just for today, because he'll forget what he wanted for lunch and his physical therapy appointment this afternoon and that he needs to go to the grocery store _sometime this week, Barnes_ even though he remembers with crystalline clarity the sound a bullet makes when it tears through the barrel of a gun and the exact shade of red blood in the first second it leaves a body.

Natasha says it's all part of the healing process. They were in the same program, though he started first and stayed longer. She knows her shit, and she knows what he's going through. She knows how it feels to be a stranger in your own skin; to feel like the name you think is yours shouldn't be. She tells him they forget everyday mundane things because they're still half on the battlefield, still living there and that's what they're really trying to forget. He knows she's right. It's still goddamn irritating. 

"Shit. Goddammit. Stop ranting in your head Barnes, no one cares," he says to the empty apartment, refocusing on his phone. On his list it says 'Groceries. For DINNER.' Right. He'd been heading to the grocery store before the stair had distracted him. Fries and salad, he'll have to get some vegetables to put in it. Carrots, he has at least one good onion left and he thinks he might even have some fruit left he could throw in. 

During the drive to the store he finds himself wondering how his brain decides what to remember and what to forget. Some things are automatic; he knows how to get around Brooklyn for instance. He always remembers to put a can of wet food out on his back porch for the stray cat he's sort of adopted but the landlord won't let him keep. He knows the things he usually buys at the grocery store and the aisles they're in. Wallet in his right back pocket, keys in his left front, phone back left. Right pocket is where change goes so he doesn't forget to empty it before putting his clothes in the washer. 

It's a small routine but it helps, makes him feel like he's got everything on the fifteen body checks he gives himself when he's where he might lose something. 

He forgets where he's supposed to be during the day. 

Natasha says he creeps around. He does. He's conscious of how softly his feet fall, how he sticks to the edges of places, how he prefers shadows. It's not really something he's ashamed of per say, more like something that's been a part of him for so long he's stopped noticing it even as he's aware it's unusual. He's never the first to talk.

\-------

He's at the grocery store again. Not because he forgot something the first time, but because he's been craving Thai all day and doesn't have the right spices. He doesn't forget strong cravings. He also doesn't order out, because the grease makes him sick and he will never trust himself, no matter how many times he checks, to have the right, exact change and tip when the delivery man gets to the door. 

He also won't trust the delivery guy not to point a gun at him as soon as he opens the door, or that force of habit won't have him drawing one first. He knows he's kind of a mess. 

\--------

Three weeks pass and he comes back from the holiday Nat had forced him to take. It was actually kind of nice, not having to remember anything, having no schedule of things he had to do. But now he's back and his mind has gone soft in the two weeks he's been away. He hadn't had a panic attack the entire time he was away and it's long overdue. Looking helplessly at the parking stub in his hand and the letters and numbers of the flat, open parking lot, he almost considers giving up and taking the bus. Asking Nat to come back with him to find his car some other time. 

But of course now he remembers he left his keys to everything but the car in his car - they were safer there than with him. He swears he's not a master sniper but a master of losing things instead. So he's stuck. Looking for his car. He vaguely remembers he parked near a bus station, thinking it would be easy to spot. Except he hadn't considered in that brilliant train of thought just how many bus stations there were in the airport parking lot. Within sight, he counts ten. He starts at one end of the lot with a heavy sigh, hoping the vague direction he picked is because of the lost memory. 

It's not.

He's still looking for his car half an hour later and even though his car is fairly easy to spot he's starting to seriously consider just breaking into his apartment. He stops walking and looks around again, looking for his car, for anything that might jog his memory but he knows it's hopeless at this point. He's completely forgotten where he parked his car. He knows the letter was something like G...or K...? He knows it's not C because he's already done that row, but maybe he missed it. He doesn't know why he can't just fucking _pay attention and remember shit._

As he's standing there looking vaguely up at the sky he feels the beginnings of a panic attack coming on - the heat flooding his body and his throat closing up and this was not fucking worth it no matter how nice the change in scenery was. He starts digging out his cellphone to call Nat when a guy steps out of a truck a few spaces down and walks towards him. If the guy weren't so fucking wholesome looking Bucky would probably turn tail and run because he's not up for a fight or even mildly cordial conversation, but the guy looks friendly. If not for the camo rucksack and dog tags hanging at his collar that identify him as military, Bucky might have mistake him for a really beefy librarian or college professor.

"Hey I - uh. You look like-. Shit. Do you need help?" His complete awkwardness with conversation, absurdly, makes Bucky laugh. It's not funny, but he's just on that edge of panic where everything has taken on ironic undertones and he's laughing so he doesn't cry in front of a complete stranger. The guy is speaking again before Bucky can answer. "I don't mean to be forward or anything it's just...you look kind of like I felt when I first came back from overseas and I...well I was wondering if maybe I could help." Bucky is startled. How does this guy know he's- "...Unless you're not...sorry I'm being an idiot." Really this is kind of adorable now.

"No it's...fine I just....I wasn't expecting to have an audience for my panic attack." It's a weak attempt at conversation, let alone humor, but the guy smiles in understanding and concern. He looks like he's waiting for Bucky to continue so he does. "Yeah I have...no idea where my car is. My friend forced me to go on a vacation two weeks ago and I was so stressed I think I completely blanked on where I parked. All I can remember is it was by a bus stop."

"I can help you. At least with the panic attack part." The guy approaches closer now that initial contact has been made. Bucky gets the feeling he maybe really does know what this feels like. "When I first got back I was...man I was out of it. I kept having deja vu over weird things. One time I FREAKED OUT at my friend's place 'cause we were watching a game and I was sure I'd seen it before. I thought they had somehow brainwashed me. It was...." The guy laughs. Bucky likes his laugh. "It was nuts." The guy looks over at him, blue eyes warm and a hand extended across his side. "The name's Steve by the way. Steve Rogers." 

"James Buchanan Barnes, but everyone calls me Bucky." He takes Steve's offered hand, grateful that if nothing else the panic has settled in his stomach, content for the moment not to overwhelm him. "How long have you been back for?" 

"Two years, give or take. So what's your car look like?"

Right. The car. He sighs and is relieved when it doesn't hitch into a sob at the end. He feels stupid enough without crying over a fucking car. "It's a black Grand Cherokee. One of the old ones." Steve smiles, offers to carry some of the bags stacked on Bucky's left arm. It's a concerted effort not to roll his eyes at the chivalry, but he assures Steve he doesn't need help. "Can't feel the arm anyway. Might as well be useful for something." He throws it out as casually as he can as they start walking, but he sees Steve put it together. 

"Shit. Sorry. I - couldn't tell." 

"Don't worry about it." For all his other problems, Bucky has been surprisingly able to deal with his left arm and shoulder getting blown off by an IED and replaced by a certifiable _gadget_ of a prosthetic.

It takes them another fifteen minutes to find Bucky's car and in that time Bucky learns that Steve grew up in Brooklyn like he did, actually in the same neighborhood. He learns that Steve was ridiculously sick as a child and was homeschooled because of it. He joined the army when he was 23 and made it all the way to Captain of his own special forces squad before he couldn't take the violence anymore. He learns Steve is an idealist. In return Bucky doesn't offer much and Steve doesn't push, but he does end up telling Steve that he spent three years as a special black ops sniper before getting captured and tortured as a POW. He tells him about the panic attacks and PTSD and how he sometimes can't even remember his own name. He's more relieved than he'll ever admit when Steve says that while he never had anything quite that bad, he sometimes still had depression issues and that if Bucky wanted to talk to someone, his friend Sam was another Vet who worked down at the VA, and really got it. 

Steve also somehow managed to weasel out that Bucky is a huge sci-fi nerd and has Very Strong Opinions about almost every major work in the genre.

"And it's kind of ridiculous, ya know? Like how can you not realize she's your sist- _Shit that's it!_ " Bucky stops, tears of relief springing to his eyes. There's his car, sitting in front of column J - column J - _J like your first name, idiot_ \- near the bus stop, and Bucky feels like an idiot even if he's almost glad he couldn't remember now. " _That's it!_ " he repeats, wrapping a celebratory arm around Steve's shoulders before he realizes what he's doing. He pulls away like he's burnt, apologizing, but Steve just shakes his head.

"Nah it's okay, I'm glad we found it. Are you gonna be okay?" There's concern in Steve's eyes but something else too, and when Bucky thinks he recognizes it he - well shit he's not really sure what to do.

"Yeah I'll be okay now. Uh. Thanks. Really, shit, you have no idea. Thanks, man." He smiles, a real, grateful smile and is rewarded by an answering one from Steve and the intensifying of that thing in his eyes.

"No problem." Steve's sincerity is like a tangible thing. Bucky’s never met someone so fucking genuine and he marvels at the quality. He thinks Steve could tell him there are martians dancing behind him and he'd actually believe him, wouldn't even have to look. A beat of silence as he admires that. Steve coughs and averts his eyes, awkward like he hasn't been since the first words he'd spoken. "Listen, I..." he turns, and rips a piece of paper out of the sketchbook hanging out of his rucksack. Unclipping the pencil from the side he writes hastily on the small scrap. "Here's my number. You know, in case you wanna talk. Or are having a panic attack. Anything, y'know? I don't mind. Really." 

Bucky lets out a breath in laughter as he takes the paper and tucks it carefully in his pocket. The right front one because he can't reach the one with his phone, but he always checks the right front pocket before he washes his pants. "I'll probably forget to call you, honestly." It's a joke but Steve looks somewhat disappointed, and Bucky feels like a jerk. "But..maybe...if you don't mind me calling for _anything_ ,” he attempts to affect the drawl that used to work so well on his old pick-ups. “ ...maybe coffee sometime?" The genuine happiness returns to Steve’s face and Bucky is more relieved than he thinks he should be. 

"Yeah. Yeah, that'd be awesome. Coffee sometime." He nods. "Anytime." 

"Great. And. Thanks again. Maybe I'll see you around sometime."

"And if not you'll call." Steve grins and Bucky has the urge to lean in and kiss him. It's his cue to officially say goodbye. 

"Hopefully," he confirms, and gives Steve a small salute before turning and walking over to his car. He sits quietly in the driver's seat as Steve cuts through the aisles back to his own car. Bucky won't admit to watching as he drives away. He pulls out his phone, and the number from his right pocket. Makes an entry in his checklist that reads:

 _'Call Steve Rogers for coffee. (Airport parking lot. Blond. Godly shoulders, nice smile. Martians?)'_

He has a feeling he won't forget Steve, but just in case.

**Author's Note:**

> So this is in response to [a prompt on tumblr](http://caughtinanocean.tumblr.com/post/89407898665/fuckkkk-now-i-want-an-au-where-bucky-is-a-vet-and). Not sure if it'll be continued in sequels or not, but for now it's its own standalone piece. 
> 
> (If for some reason you've been tricked into thinking you want more of this blather...well you'll just have to wait until I post something else here. But for lots of sebastian stan/Captain America/1930's NYC screaming, my tumblr is [over here y'all](http://im-the-asshole-that.tumblr.com).)


End file.
